


Fainting Game

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blood, Choking, Coda, Fantasizing, Hopeful Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Making Up, Mild Gore, Missing Scene, Pining, Post-Betrayal, Praise Kink, Reconciliation, Reunions, Sexual Fantasy, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 21:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14144940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: Let him open his mouth and dig around into his throat, prod at his larynx and the delicate chords inside. Edward has given him so much that Oswald would willingly give him the only thing he had ever truly had to his name: his words.Some thoughts, post-4x15.





	Fainting Game

**Author's Note:**

> a tiny thing. listened to [this song](https://nicoledollanganger.bandcamp.com/track/choking-games) on repeat while writing.

He's not jealous. How could he be, when Edward had been a awkward, hunched loser back then, when he was only what he wanted after Oswald had gotten his hands on him, molding him specification by specification? No, it was something less simple than that, more visceral. It was a unique kind of anguish that only two people like them could understand.

Most of all, he thinks about how _lucky_  she was. To die at your lover's hands. How romantic.

Edward had explained it to him, after Oswald had taken him from Arkham, with much less attachment and swallowing down tears than he had expected. Now, it was clinical, cold, a small portion of a page torn out of his life. He told Oswald about how he had grabbed at her, hands seeking her throat with a growing unawareness, pleaded with her, words falling uselessly. Their sincerity making them more tauntlike, Oswald had relished as he leaned back into his chair, face nothing more than a calculated stare. Edward had been in an undershirt, he remembers. Had cradled her lifeless body to his, crying, sobbing. He thinks of Ilya Repin, of Ivan the Terrible and his son, and imagines Edward's mistakes drafted onto oil forever. He thinks of what remorse must feel like, and buries the notion. Being buried alive never sounded so wonderful.

No, Oswald is only jealous that he had been unable to see Edward in his most beautiful moment.

Before, the thought of little, eager Edward murdering anyone had been a joke. His passion for the sport was diffused by his presence, his nature, and Oswald couldn't imagine him bound by bloodlust in the way he had so described. But after, once Edward refuses to spare him any detail, it never leaves his mind. Any mayoral duties succumbed to the anxiety brewing underneath, the feeling of his nails sliding across wood, the tapping of his foot.

Oswald wasn't a stranger to pain, he met with it like an old friend would. But instead of other children pushing his face to the ground and forcing his arms behind his back, this was much more personal. Ed wouldn't mean to hurt him, wouldn't want to. There would be no grievances, Edward would simply hold him, nails digging farther into his skin, begging, pleading with him. Soak in this golden reverence. "I love you Oswald," and Edward looks at him like a god, a god he's killing, while Oswald's eyes roll painfully back into his skull. "I love you so much. Don't leave me. I'd do anything for you." Hypoxia sets in. He won't know if he's euphoric from the praise or the pain, but he knows he'll be hard, legs flailing wildly as he attempts to fight back. When he's hopeful, he imagines Edward kissing the rest of the air out of him before he blacks out.

(On the nights where it's unbearable, Oswald lets one of his hands crawl upward, the other snaking lower. He whimpers until there's nothing left in him to give. There's nothing in him, all of the air vacating his lungs in search of plants, of purer people, like even oxygen can't stand to be inside of him. It feels so  _good._ )

Kristen didn't know how good she had it. When Edward decided to kill for him, in the name of everything they've done together, he sings like the bird he is. No apprehensions. Edward could kill every grown child that had pushed him into the dirt when he was smaller and weaker and he would worship him for it. Let him open his mouth and dig around into his throat, prod at his larynx and the delicate chords inside. Edward has given him so much that Oswald would willingly give him the only thing he had ever truly had to his name: his words.

* * *

  
Throughout everything, the idea never truly dissipates, crawling around inside of him like marbles rolled into the corner of a room, like a fog that never truly lifts. Even after his blood and the ocean become one, he thinks of it.

Then, he had thought about how it would've been purposeful. His skin vibrates when Edward turns on him, and as much as he wants to hurt him back, he knows his hands would feel just as good. No. Better. This was how he lived. Edward would never kill him in these fantasies, because he _couldn't,_  Oswald realized that then when he failed to the first time. He thinks about how he'd choke on venom, worry Edward's hand with the bobbing of his throat, with, "You need me Edward Nygma, I am everything to you, I _made_  you, you're mine and mine alone."

In his worst moments, he thinks about draining Edward instead. If Oswald had always had a gentle pull on his life, it was obvious now, with the man frozen. He wanders from Butch, from holding Edward onstage, in front of everyone- hadn't their life always been a show?- to them now, his hands on his neck and Edward's hands on his. An elegant progression of time. Gotham is cyclical, callous, and there is nothing to stop the onslaught of moments repeating themselves, always the same, always different. He wonders if Edward had died for him that first time, gave himself up to Gilzean, would he be happy? Or would he ache to squeeze a little too hard, hoist himself up by the tips of his toes and press his thumbs down, down, harder.

* * *

Now, Oswald stands awkwardly at the end of the couch. Edward's hands quiver as he attempts to massage his mouth. The red on green has made a shade that rivals soil on Edward's suit, but its appearance on his skin remains striking. He has always been gorgeous like that. He wills himself, rather forcefully, to not think about the last time they were here, after Butch had-

No. He can think about that later.

He knows it had to hurt. It wasn't as if he wasn't familiar with the Dentist, hadn't seen his work when he hired him. The man had been thorough, included radiographs of the damage he had done, let Oswald see them for himself. Impressive showmanship, really. One must be meticulous in notoriety, Oswald knew that as well as anyone. But the idea that this extent of damage was done to Edward, and more importantly, for his sake, well...

It made him ache in a familiar way.

"Did you need to do that?"

"What?"

Oswald uncrosses one arm to gesture slightly to him. " _That_. Put yourself on the line for me. Was it necessary?"

He frowns. "They would have hurt you if I told them where you were."

He stays quiet in response, worries his lip with his teeth.

"It's only fair," Edward murmurs. "You once wanted to die for me." A quick glance at Oswald, at the nails on his lips, and, "You still do."

"A matter of suggestion. We are even now, I suppose."

"I'm afraid it's never that simple with us." He chuckles, but the sound comes out like a whine. "We will continue to give things up for each other, I'm sure. You sacrificed vengeance for me. We are uneven again."

Oswald sighs, impatient. "Then we will just have to wait until the other shoe drops. Whenever that may be."

Ed has the decency to look nervous again, for once, a sight Oswald hasn't seen in a long time. His head is turned towards him, eyebrows worried. "We don't have to."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs. "There's no reason for us to part now. It doesn't have to be the same as it was for it to be good." His hands fidget, and Oswald's mind returns to the aching. He wants to take Edward's hands in his. He wants him to strangle him.

"No, it doesn't."

"Don't leave me again." Desperation edges into his voice, crawling on spider legs. "Don't go so far."

Oswald makes his way to the couch. He's braver than he's ever been. And somehow, when Edward's arms reach out for him, around his neck, Oswald's own go to cup his jaw softly. "There's something I need from you."

"Hm?" His eyes are dull. It's that, or the blood around his mouth is too dry.

"If you turn on me again," he whispers, "Don't try to shoot me or crush me with a car. You know what to do."

Edward huffs, scoffs, laughs, does  _something_. Then he echoes it, a clearer laugh, and says. "La petite mort."

"What?"

"A fainting fit. I don't have to kill you to give you what you want, Oswald." His hands slide back across his shoulders, Oswald still gazing at him, slack and confused, until his thumbs press into carotids. 

To be one so lucky as him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> snickered while writing the "hopeful ending" tag. only for these two.  
> im on twitter @ valeskantine!


End file.
